


Desperation

by chvystiel, orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-30 23:17:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10886961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chvystiel/pseuds/chvystiel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: After a near-miss, all Dean wants is to be close to Castiel.





	Desperation

**Author's Note:**

> Author: mysticmajestic  
> Artist: chvystiel.
> 
> I, mysticmajestic, apologise for the delay since I lost track of time entirely and two days passed before I realised I was supposed to post. I'm really so sorry.

[Artwork](http://www.mediafire.com/view/c2lokelqd5goic9/DestielReverseBang_Destiel_chvystiel.png)

* * *

 

It’s almost a cliché at this point how often things in Dean’s life go bad because of a hunt. How often he has to watch people he cares about get hurt, and he’s always, _always_ , too late to stop it.

It was supposed to be an open-and-shut ghost hunt. Two teenagers had been killed by the vengeful ghost of an old woman who’d gone batshit crazy when two of her own children had been struck down by tuberculosis well over a hundred years ago. Classic case of “If my children didn’t deserve to live, then yours shouldn’t either.” And nothing was supposed to go wrong when it came to ganking the bitch once and for all.

Except for the fact that it’s raining and Sam can’t get matches or paper to stay lit long enough to burn the body, no matter how many times he tries, or how much he swears. Dean and Castiel, armed with shotguns full of salt rounds, protect Sam as much as they’re able; the ghost reappears within five seconds in different places. With the rain coming down hard, it’s difficult to keep track of her.  

“Hurry up, Sam!” Dean shouts, shooting the ghost in the face as it reappears in front of him, fingers curled into claws.

“I’m trying,” Sam yells back. “It’s raining too much!”

“Well, we’re running out of ammo, so _think of something_.”

He hears the swoosh of the ghost reappearing, but he can’t see her. Starting to turn, he feels the tell-tale tingle run down his spine. _She’s behind me._

“Dean, _duck_!” Castiel shouts, whirling around.

Dean drops to the ground, grimacing when his knuckles get crushed between his shotgun and the ground, but Castiel shoots the ghost between the eyes and it disappears again. Dean scrambles to his feet and turns in every direction with his shotgun raised, waiting for her.

“I’ve almost got it,” Sam tells them. “Just hang on a little longer.”

“You _better_ have it,” said Dean.

It had not originally been raining when they’d come out here to burn the corpse, but the clouds had hung heavy and dark in the sky, an ominous threat to unleash near-torrential rain at any given moment. It was just their luck that it had happened _now_.

“Cas, to your left,” Dean says, when the ghost reappears by Castiel’s side.

Castiel turns and attempts to shoot her—but there’s nothing more than a harmless click. _Shit,_ Dean thinks, his feet slipping in the mud as he rushes to Castiel’s aide. He can’t be certain if he’ll hit the ghost from this distance, especially not in the rain. _He’s out of ammo_.

He shouts, “Sam, _hurry_!”

Castiel screams in pain as the ghost shoves her hand through his stomach, rooting around in his intestines. The gun tumbles from his hand. She smiles savagely, pushes in a little more until half her forearm has disappeared inside him. As Dean yells out, hefting his gun, he notices that she’s the only thing holding Castiel upright. He shoots.

_Whoosh!_

“Got it!” Sam shouts, leaping out of the grave. “I finally fucking got the remains to light up.”

The ghost wails and rips her hand out of Castiel, who drops to the ground in a twitching heap. She takes a few stumbling steps back, holding her hands out in front of her as her whole incorporeal body catches on fire. She shakes her hands, stamps her feet, wailing as she burns. It’s all useless effort. There’s no stopping it now. It takes only a few seconds for her to vanish into thin air.

“Cas,” says Dean, throwing the shotgun aside and racing to Castiel, sliding across the distance on his knees. “Cas! Hey, buddy. Talk to me.” He gestures frantically at Sam and says, “Come help me turn him over. The bitch got him good.”

“Cas,” says Sam. He and Dean manage to haul Castiel upright, who, with blood dripping down his chin, groans in pain. “How bad is it?”

“Can you heal yourself?” Dean demands. As Sam maintains a steadying grip on Castiel, Dean starts peeling back his shirt. His heart seizes when he discovers a gaping hole in Castiel’s stomach, right above his bellybutton. “Cas, answer me! _Can you heal yourself_?”

Castiel coughs thickly. “I—I think so. It’ll … take some time.”

Not for the first time, Dean’s so very thankful that Castiel retained some of his grace, and therefore is not all the way human. An injury like this would’ve been fatal. But that doesn’t erase the terror of seeing Castiel so badly injured. Half of him is convinced that he could die at any moment.

“Come on,” he says to Sam, standing. “Let’s get him back to the car and get him cleaned up.”

 _How many stitches will it take to close a wound like this?_ Dean wonders. Castiel may heal in time, but there’s no way in hell Dean’s leaving a gaping hole like that to sit and fester. “You good to close up the grave yourself, Sammy?”

“Shouldn’t take too long,” says Sam. “You just take care of Cas.”

“There’s no need,” says Castiel. When he opens his eyes, they roll back into the sockets like he’s about to pass out. Blinking rapidly, he finally meets Dean’s worried gaze. “I will heal.”

“Just shut up and let us stitch this thing closed,” Dean says, tightening his hold on Castiel’s waist. _Too fucking close. This was just too fucking close_. “Focus on fixing your insides.”

The rest of Castiel’s complaints fall on deaf ears as he’s laid across the back seat of the Impala, shirt shoved up to his chest, the gaping hole on full display. Dean retrieves the first-aid kit from the trunk and jumps into the back as well, kneeling down beside Castiel.

He cleans out the wound as best he can, the sting of alcohol wipes not affecting Castiel in the slightest, and then he prepares the needle and thread, disinfecting both. Dean works with the confident speed of someone who’s had to do this way too often in his lifetime.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” says Castiel. “I should have been faster.”

“You ran out of ammo.” Dean carefully starts to thread the needle through Castiel’s skin, ignoring the blood oozing onto his hands. It’s remarkable just how quickly the bleeding has slowed down. “It wasn’t your fault.” _I should have shot the bitch faster when I realised._

Castiel levels him with a knowing look. “Then it wasn’t your fault either.”

Dean hums noncommittally.

“I mean it, Dean.” Castiel reaches out, stroking his knuckles down Dean’s cheek fondly. It takes all of Dean’s self-control not to lose focus on knitting Castiel back together, when he wants to lean into the touch and bask in the comfort. “This was just mere bad luck.”

Dean doesn’t respond—doesn’t know how to respond. Hunching his shoulders, he concentrates on the stitches, the weight of Castiel’s gaze sitting heavily on him. He doesn’t deserve the forgiveness that he knows Castiel will give him; this wound would kill a human. Dean hadn’t reacted fast enough and if Castiel could’ve been dead right now. It’s inexcusable.

A finger and thumb pinch his chin, gently guiding his head up until he’s staring Castiel right in the face. There’s a knowing gleam in Castiel’s eyes that Dean doesn’t like, mixed with that forgiveness he knew would be there.

“I may not be a full angel anymore, but I can still tell what you’re thinking, Dean,” says Castiel warmly. “Even then, I don’t need that ability to know that you’re blaming yourself. This was an accident, Dean. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I should’ve been faster.”

“Accidents happen on hunts, Dean. You know that.”

Dean does know that. That’s why John drilled it in Dean throughout childhood to be careful. That’s why Dean, for the majority of his adult life, goes over the risks in his head countless times before a hunt. He knows what to do—what he _should_ do—to minimise casualties as best he can.

“But I will be fine,” Castiel continues. “This wound will heal. I will live.”

 _He’ll live._ Dean stares at Castiel, letting that fact sink in. _Castiel will live._ He doesn’t die easily, so he won’t leave. He’s not going _anywhere_. Switching the needle from one hand to the other, Dean grips Castiel’s wrist tight as if anchoring himself. Castiel shifts his own hand so that he’s no longer pinching Dean’s chin but instead cradling his cheek.

They lean in until Castiel’s breath ghosts across Dean’s skin, sending shivers rolling delightfully down his spine. _Yes, yes, just kiss me—_

“Hey, guys,” Sam calls, making his way back over. Dean and Castiel startle and spring apart—and Castiel groans in pain when he twists in the wrong direction, causing his injury to flare up again. As Sam hops into the drivers’ seat, he seems oblivious to the moment he’d just stumbled upon, grabbing and twisting the ends of his hair as he leans out the window, getting rid of excess water. “I’m done here. Dunno about you guys but I am ready to get the hell out of here.” He looks over his shoulder at Castiel, brows furrowed in concern. “How’re you holding up, Cas?”

Sam already knows about Dean and Castiel’s relationship, relatively new as it is. But in no way shape or form is Dean comfortable sharing any kind of ‘romantic’ moment around Castiel when Sam’s nearby. It’s a bit _too_ soon for that.

“As I’ve told Dean, I will be fine,” Castiel assures. “Another day or two and my body won’t bear even a scratch on it.” His eyes flick to Dean, as if to see whether the reassurances have finally sunk in or not.

Sam smiles, rubbing his hands against his jeans. Whether or not that’ll dry them remains to be seen. “That’s good to hear, man. You scared us pretty good.”

“My apologies.”

“Give me another minute before you drive off,” says Dean, forcing down his frustration. _Goddamn but if Sammy doesn’t have_ impeccable _fucking timing…_ “I’m not done closing the wound yet.”

“Tch, hurry up. I’m so tired I could sleep for a week.”

“Shut the fuck up, Sammy.”

He works quickly but efficiently, years of experience sewing himself and others back together again working to his advantage. However, Sam’s almost asleep by the time Dean cuts off the thread and declares himself done.

“Thank you, Dean,” says Castiel.

“You’re welcome,” says Dean gruffly, then shakes Sam roughly by the shoulder. “Oi, Sleeping Beauty, drive us back.”

Sam grumbles under his breath as he rubs the sleep from his eyes, but nevertheless he accepts the keys that Dean throws to him and starts up the car. He pauses only to yawn loudly and stretch, before they’re speeding out of the graveyard as fast as they possibly dare with the thick sheets of rain pummelling the ground and fogging up the windshield.

It takes them roughly five minutes to reach the hotel, but in that time the adrenaline starts to bottom out; Dean’s fighting to keep his eyes open. The closer they get to the hotel the more appealing sleep becomes.

They have two rooms booked; one for Sam, one for Dean and Castiel. Sam hauls his duffel bags into his own room, mumbling goodnight, and shuts the door with the kind of firmness that warns you’ll die a painful death if you disrupt him at all in the next twelve hours. Dean snorts.

Getting into his room, Dean almost cried in relief at the sight of the bed. But as cold and wet as he is, he knows better than to crawl into it like he so desperately wants to.

“Shower?” he asks Castiel, yawning. “Join me?”

Castiel nods wearily.

They’re not in the mood to get frisky, so their shower is merely standard fare. Standing under the piping hot spray as much as two grown men are capable when they’re standing side by side in a rather small shower, letting the heat seep into their aching muscles.

After their shower, Dean checks the condition of Castiel’s wound before they get dressed, and is happy to see that it really is on the mend already. Those stitches might be ready to come back out by noon tomorrow, and the wound closed by nightfall.

“I’m okay,” Castiel says again, smiling.

Dean returns the smile, stands back up, and presses a chaste kiss to Castiel’s lips. “I know.”

They get dressed. A whole lifetime of being on the road, trained to be ready for anything at any time, Dean dresses in his day clothes and a pair of socks. If something happens in the middle of the night, he’s good to stuff his feet into his shoes and go. Taking a leaf from Dean’s book, Castiel does the same, choosing a white shirt and black slacks. The dork even puts his coat on over the top of it. If he manages to sleep comfortably like that at _all_ , Dean’ll be surprised.

But as he stares down at the bed, Dean realises he doesn’t want to go to sleep. Probably couldn’t, anyway, if he wanted to. Tonight was a near miss, likely one of many to come. Every gig they take has the potential to be fatal for all of them. It’s a risk they have to take.

Doesn’t mean it ever gets any easier.

He grabs Castiel by the arm, preventing him from climbing into bed.

“Dean?” Castiel squints up at him in confusion. “Is everything alright?”

Instead of answering, he hauls Castiel upright and kisses him for all he’s worth. Castiel gasps into the kiss, surprised for a mere few seconds, and then he’s grabbing at Dean with the same fervour. Visited by the same frenzied desire to be as close as possible. They’re a tangled mess of arms, grabbing at every part of each other they can reach.

Any and all traces of tiredness are gone.

Castiel shoves Dean onto the bed and pins him there as he climbs on top. Kissing, kissing, kissing. Hands reaching under clothes to touch warm, smooth skin.

He sits upright, knocking Castiel back a bit on accident. Castiel seizes Dean’s shoulders to stop himself from toppling off the bed.

“Sorry, sorry,” Dean chuckles, humming as Castiel nips at his lower lip. He winds his arms around Castiel’s waist, pulling him closer.

They must have stayed that way for hours, locked in an embrace, and Dean couldn’t care less. He only comes back to himself when he reaches around and presses his knuckles between Castiel’s shoulder blades, eliciting a gasp.

“What?” Dean demands, yanking his hand back as if burned. “What did I do?”

“That’s where my wings are,” says Castiel. His eyes are glassy as he licks his swollen lips. “If you could see them, that’s where they’d be.”

“And it’s like, what, an erogenous zone?”

“I suppose you could call it that.”

Dean whistles. “Man, how’d I not know that before?” He could’ve had so much more fun with Castiel had he’d known about it. But for now he leaves it alone. He’s having too much fun kissing Castiel right now to bother with anything else.  

Instead, he continues kissing Castiel until they’re both too tired to keep their eyes open.


End file.
